contort.

I wanted to go in for the passions, and the quickest route was the song where the flames are bitter and the singer is raging while shotguns and muddy tube socks fill the stage with a gaseous hatred that has no source yet deflects blame for its emptiness upon the audience, who only want to divulge their own secrets according to the scripts, which by this point is obviously too linear for the lot of them, trained post-structuralists with tepid affairs kept on the burner that has its green light and nothing else burning; you see it's a contagion without ailment, better known as Dolores' final attempt to fit herself within a theoretical framework of any sort--the audience calls out themes--post-colonialist! Subaltern! But the plot is suddenly wavering. All anyone can see is the chair sitting there ready to burn. A set of hands ready to clasp. A bucket about to be kicked--and holy God! Is that the dramatist in the third row? Why are we directed there--who's in charge here!

(Don't type this up. Don't write this out. Don't share this online. Don't hide this from the playwright. Don't call the doctor. Consider the prostate cancer of withholding like a leashed mutt. You are nevermore to speak of this, I think it has chosen you so beware--the manager is near--she needs reports!

She's the one who volunteered. There goes the best creative mind Alterity's ever known. Who can say what brought her into the realm of theory and why her characters are angry now without being funny--a tale for another day. We see Death on a tripod stool with his hands lap-folded before a gallon of fire water. Now he's passing out samples, he's struck that stance which says I know all about your silly situation, it will be the greatest disappointment once you run away from it--for only then will it catch you! Go on, try swallowing her whole, she's a spot on the rug that will stain your socks every time you awake at 4 to make urine--stop wearing socks? Stop listening to her talking after midnight? Why, that's early. Too much worry causes nothing but panic and that is precisely what we need down here--

You! In the 6th row! What do you know? Has her hair stayed straight, or is the rest of the earth realizing its roundness--is the disbursement of ideas and cultures and anxieties restricted to a ball, can it be that the back of her head is pinpointing too much and you had better substitute this clarity for swarthy deceptions? You know she has curly hair and that torture can only work under her disinterested watch--so control yourself. I think we're in for a ride. You have fortunately been drinking wine.